


Danse Macabre

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:08:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mirage meets someone unexpected in an art gallery. </p><p>Written for the tf_speedwriting Spam Weekend, to the prompt <i>danse macabre</i>. Unlike the others, this one wouldn't fit in a drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Danse Macabre

"Rust." Mirage curled his lip. "Seriously?"

The artist's doorwings drooped. "It's symbolic," he sputtered. "It can't be finished in anything else!"

Mirage tutted. Rust indeed. Not on his walls, no matter how up-and-coming the artist. He was about to go when a dark pink femme stepped up beside him. 

"I get it," she said. "It's about death and decay, and how our lives may be long but nothing is infinite." She pursed her lips at him and approached the wall-high work of art. The figures moved in the dancing light. Modeled in low relief, and with a grasp of perspective that was nothing short of masterful, they gave the impression of inhabiting a space as real as the gallery in which Mirage and the strange femme stood. It was a splendid illusion, and one which Mirage would happily have thrown money at, were it not for the rust. 

"Here," the femme continued, gesturing to the figures. "We have the Prime, the Guardian, the Mechanic, the Miner, the Empty. An archetype from each caste, all covered in rust. It's rather subversive, in a fashionable way. It says that, deep down, we're all the same."

The artist nodded, hands clasped to his chest. His optics flickered furtively from Mirage to the femme. 

"Forgive me," Mirage said. "I don't believe we've been introduced."

"Elita One," the femme replied. 

Mirage took a moment to recalibrate his worldview. "Please to meet you," he said, and offered his data cable. 

After a brief polite synch, during which the artist evidently didn't know where to look, Elita turned back to the artwork. 

"You need the rust," she said. "Imagine this finished in some imported organic compound or crushed rubies or whatever expensive paint you like, it would be a sham."

The artist nodded again, but kept his peace. Mirage tilted his head, sighing softly through his vents as he gave the appearance of re-assessing the work. Elita was with the Prime's office, cultivating an acquaintanceship could prove highly beneficial. 

"You're right," Mirage said, and gave the artist his most sincere patronly smile. "I'll take it."


End file.
